Phone Folly
by Ian C Smith

He has never driven a truck; foremen don’t usually
but when his regular driver fails to show
he wangles a quiet hour, filling the breech,
team man, jack-of-all-trades delivering the goods.

Their receptionist asks for him, always,
trivial information, drawn-out queries
in the silky sexiest breathiest throb
that made even wing-nuts or grubscrews sound risqué.

He reverses, parks below the gantry, ruffles his hair,
takes the chit to the office, pleased with his gambit.
The moment she sees his grin he feels her dismay,
her plain features, overweight body, slumping.

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